From the Waters
by stingglamdringorcrist
Summary: Born from the sea, he will journey far into shadow in search of a lost artifact, which he will find in the most unlikely way. (Fire of the North sequel)
1. Prologue: The Grip of the Shadow

T.A. 2987

It began in a village of an ancient and mysterious race, the Dunedain. Most of the Dunedain lived in the regions farther to the west, near Angmar and the Shire. But one, very small village had split off, and was built right on the sea, behind the Blue Mountains. They were surrounded by bleach white shores and high, jagged cliffs. The brown-yellow grass stretched all the way to the edge of the cliffs, lush green mountain forests at its back. The dark blue and white foamy waves crashed nonstop against the gray rocks of the cliffs.

Upon a bluff sat the village. It overlooked the vast ocean. The buildings had thatched roofs and were made of oak wood from the mountains. They served as suitable and comfortable shelters from storms and the sea. A larger hall held the lord. He was the best fit to rule over the small amount of people, with a mighty and just hand. The houses were dotted around his, in all sorts of fashions, right up against the cliffs. It was a friendly village, but there were very few people.

…

The baby was wrapped in a dark brown cloak. The mother rested in a chair in front of the hall while the ceremony proceeded. Two elders walked with the lord as he carried his son to the edge of the cliff. His long, gray and brown spotted fur coat whipped behind him in the wind. The silver diadem on his head wrapped around his long brown hair. He wore leather boots and a leather tunic. He smiled at his son, his gray eyes meeting his son's surprisingly blue. That was an extremely uncommon trait in a Dunedain.

The two elders stood next to the lord. They both came forward to the baby and rested their hands upon him. The lord had already informed them of the name he had chosen.

"May you be known as Amaethon, son of Eathon," the elders said in unison with their hands upon the baby. "May you become a great leader for your people. May the sea bless you." They released their grip and one of them pulled a canteen of strange liquid from his side. He dipped his two fingers into the blue liquid and made two parallel lines on Amaethon's head.

From nowhere, a massive gust of wind came from behind. It swept Amaethon right from his father's grip. He yelled and leaned over the cliff where he had fallen.

"Get help! Ropes or something useful!" he yelled to the crowd behind him. They ran to their homes to find supplies. Eathon looked out to the sea. His son was nowhere to be found. A distant blowing of a clear horn attracted his ears. He looked up to the blue waves. It appeared to be a man, with a long flowing beard. He held a horn in his hand, only his form was water. Suddenly, the waves were calmed to be completely still. The water man glided through the waves and lifted his hand. A massive wave broke the surface, and grew to a height taller than the cliff. It fell before Eathon. Atop the wave was a small baby, coughing on water in his lungs. He landed gently at his father's feet. Eathon looked out to the sea and saw the man of water. He blew another crisp note on his horn and sank beneath the waves. Eathon lifted Amaethon and hugged him tightly.

"Long have I desired to see Ulmo, Lord of the Waters," a voice said from behind him. Eathon turned and saw one of the elders behind him, his long white hair flying in the sea breeze. Eathon knew what he was talking about. "Amaethon is blessed, and has the favor of him. Your son will make a great lord."

Evening set upon the village, and Eathon returned home to his wife with Amaethon in his arms.

T.A. 3000

Amaethon awoke in the early morning. He realized that he was now thirteen years of age. He sat up and closed his eyes, listening to the sound of the crashing waves. He unlocked the latch on his window and opened it. Amaethon climbed outside in his sleeping robe. He was barefoot.

The cool, wet grass felt nice on his feet. He looked up at the millions of bright stars overhead. A light ocean breeze rippled his short dirty blonde hair. He walked slowly from the hall, and out to the cliff. The dark waves rippled and grabbed the white sand below. His white robe tossed in the breeze. He loved to sit out on the cliffs at night. The moon shot beams all over the water, causing them to glisten and shine.

He had heard the rumors of Orcs attacking near Bree, and the forces of Mordor, but when he was alone with the sea and the sand, he had no fear. Everything was just as it should be.

When the pink sun began to rise behind the mountains, Amaethon went back to his room and climbed into the window. He felt safe and comfortable in his bed.

Amaethon loved where he was. He loved Middle-earth, and he never wanted to leave.

…

Amaethon had a nice relationship with his parents. His father was very strict, but he loved his son with his entire heart. His mother cared for him very much as well. They were a happy family, and always were.

"Today, you are thirteen years old," Eathon said in astonishment. "It was about this time that my father taught me a song. It is very old, and has been passed down through our line." Amaethon sat up in his bed and his father knelt at his side.

"I would like to hear it," Amaethon grinned.

"_Et earello,_

_Endorenna utulien,_

_Sinome maruvan,_

_Ar Hildinyar,_

_Tenn' Ambar-metta._"

"These are very old and ancient lyrics," Eathon told Amaethon. It was very beautiful, and had a very mysterious and moving tune. He remembered that song all of his life.

So life went on in the small village, away from the Shadow of Mordor. But eventually, the Shadow extended its grasp to even the far parts of the world.

…

Amaethon spent many days studying with the elders. In total, there were only twenty-one people living in the village. Most were well educated.

There were only three children in the village, one was ten, the other seven, and the other one two. Amaethon was the oldest, and was very advanced in his learning. He studied in the main hall, memorizing maps and his heritage. The elders were always astonished that he had blonde hair, for most Dunedain had darker hair. Amaethon liked to keep it decently short. He was definitely different from the others. The elders had discussed it, and they could not tell if it was a good or ill omen.

…

"Isildur cut the Ring from Sauron's hand!" the elder yelled in excitement as he read the parchment. Amaethon sat anxiously in his chair, awaiting the rest of the story. "But, the Ring was nowhere to be found. To this day, it is lost," he looked up at the young man in front of him. He seemed dejected after hearing the ending.

"But what if it is still out there?" he asked. The elder leaned in towards him.

"It is not. Do not go looking for it if you want to find it. You will surely die, like all before you," he said strictly and slipped the parchments into a drawer across the room. He scooted back the wooden stool and walked out of the door, his brown robe following him closely.

Amaethon sat at the table, his head in his hands. _The story couldn't have ended that abruptly_, he thought to himself. Going against his teacher's words, he got up from the table and walked over the gray cobblestone floor. He slid open the drawer and read where they had finished.

'Isildur cut the Ring from Sauron's hand. He was vanquished. Isildur took the Ring from his fingers, and kept it to himself, ignoring the advice of others to destroy it. One day, as he was riding on a path, he was murdered by an Orc. The Ring disappeared. Rumors have said that someone still has it, but no one knows for certain.'

Amaethon looked at the page with wide eyes. He rolled up the brown sleeves of his tunic. Suddenly, he heard boots on the floor down the hall. His stomach did a somersault and he got up, shoving the papers back into the drawer. Eathon walked into the room. He strode up to his son and put a strong hand on his shoulder.

"We need to talk about something, Amae," he told his son. Amaethon noticed his gray eyes begin to mist.

…

His father wore a simple leather tunic similar to his own. He did not wear his crown, and the scruff on his cheeks made him look worried and stressed. He and his son walked through the brown grass on the edge of the sea.

"I'm sure the elder just told you the story of the One Ring," Eathon began. He walked slowly, keeping his gaze fixed to the ground. He held his arms behind his back.

"Just before you arrived, father," Amaethon answered. He was far from being as tall as his father, but he was certainly growing.

"And the creator of it?" his father asked. Amaethon nodded.

"Yes, father," he answered, looking to the man at his side.

"Rumors have reached us, from messengers and scouts. The Eye of Sauron is resting at the top of a great tower in Mordor," he told his son.

"Mordor is half a world away! Surely it cannot affect us," Amaethon said arrogantly. Eathon stopped and gripped his son by the shoulders. Amaethon leaned back. His father's brow twitched in terror, his mouth curved into a pitiful frown. A tear ran down his cheek.

"He is looking for it!" he whispered harshly, quickly catching his breath and stuttering.

"Father-," Amaethon began.

"No, I will not let that happen. Amaethon…" Eathon wept. Amaethon was terrified. If his father was afraid, what reason was there for him not to be?

"Father?" Amaethon asked.

"You are leaving. Come, we need to pack your things."

…

Amaethon stuffed the wool blanket into his sack. There were two loaves of bread inside with it. His father handed him a greenish-brown cloak.

"When you turned thirteen, you became a young man. I have high hopes for you, my son. Go to our kin over the Blue Mountains. They will help you," Eathon said, tightening the straps on Amaethon's boots.

"Father…I am very confused. Why am I leaving? Why is it so sudden?" Amaethon grabbed Eathon's arm. He watched his father hold up his hand.

"This is why, son," he said, his voice cracking slightly. There was a beautiful ring on his finger, unlike anything Amaethon had ever seen. The ring was bright silver, and a deep blue gem rested on the top.

"What is it?" Amaethon asked.

"This is a Ring of Power."

Amaethon could not believe his eyes.

"Amazing…" he said, reaching for the sparking jewel.

Suddenly, a shill scream traveled through the air. Amaethon looked out of his window. He could not see anything in the area.

"Amae!" Eathon yelled abruptly. Amaethon jumped and turned around. "Leave! Now! Get a horse from the barn!" he threw the sack at his son. "Go!"

Eathon ran out of his room. Amaethon ran through the hall doors and to the barn, not two buildings away. He arrived. There was a light tan horse near the front that seemed to be in good shape. Amaethon hopped on top, wrapping the cloak around his shoulders and putting the sack on his back. Then, he realized that he had no weapon. The horse stomped as he debated whether to go back or not. Another loud screech changed his mind.

He opened the gate from the top of the horse. Suddenly, he noticed a scabbard hanging on a wooden post. He reached for it, and to his surprise, a sword rested inside. He tied it around his waist and trotted the horse out of the barn.

The horse reared back at the flames. They were rapidly beginning to spread over the wooden and thatched roofs. Amaethon felt the orange and red heat on his face. The air was very smoky. The flames leapt upon the barn and crackled. Amaethon was in utter confusion. He trotted the horse to the hall.

A rider, dressed in a black cloak, riding upon a black horse, with a torch in his hand, galloped towards Amaethon. He tossed the torch onto the roof of the hall and pulled a huge broadsword out of his scabbard. Amaethon froze. The rider let out an earsplitting shriek. The horse nervously tapped its front hooves. Amaethon ducked. _Whoosh!_ The sword barely missed his head. The rider turned around once more. Suddenly, he saw two more riders, looking exactly the same, ride up next to the other.

Amaethon pulled out his sword. It was not sharpened, and would make a terrible defense. Suddenly, he heard a voice yell from behind him. He turned the horse around to see Eathon, standing on a cliff, holding the Ring of Power in his two fingers.

"Amae…" he said. Amaethon yelled, but his voice was lost in the loud galloping of the black riders. He looked back at his father one last time.

Amaethon kicked his horse in the side, and it went quickly past his burning home. There were some corpses lying in the middle of the village. With tears in his eyes, he rode towards the Blue Mountains. Once he was far enough away from the village, he turned to look over his shoulder. A massive plume of smoke tumbled into the red sky. The waters were violet in the light of the sunset. Another scream rang out. Amaethon wiped his eyes and continued into the mountains, though he did not know where he was going.


	2. Unanswered Questions

T.A. 3000

Amaethon tugged at the stale, soggy piece of bread with all his might. The rain pattered steadily on the top of his cloak. It had rained ever since he had entered the trees of the forest, which had to be hours ago. He trudged through muddy puddles and washed out paths, his boots completely brown and wet. The trees gave him some protection from the frigid drops falling from the sky.

His horse was lying in the mud, far away from him. As Amaethon rode into the forest, a random arrow had penetrated the horse's neck. It fell over dead. He was now left to walk hundreds of miles in the rain. The arrow troubled Amaethon, however. He did not see any sign of an archer in the direction that the arrow had come from. He kept his hand close to his sword, not that it would do any good against a skilled archer.

…

Suddenly, he heard squishy footsteps on the path. He dove into the bushes on the side of the road. A cloaked figure walked by. He walked slowly and carefully, looking back and forth for any sign of danger. The archer noticed that he was shorter than a typical Man, yet taller than a Dwarf or Hobbit. He smirked. This was a young boy. The boy continued down through the rain. The archer saw his chance and leapt over the bushes. He looked up at the sky. A snowstorm would soon begin. He ran to the other side of the path, towards the Gulf of Lune.

…

The rain almost instantly turned to snow. It blew with sheer force, whipping rapidly in different directions. Amaethon wrapped the sides of his cloak around his arms. He could not feel his toes. The snow piled up quickly as he attempted to trudge up the side of the mountain. The wet ground iced over in the storm. Amaethon reached for a rock, but slipped on the ice below his feet. He fell flat on his face and yelped as he slid all the way down the side of the hill, now completely covered in snow. He could not see anything. He was surrounded by blank whiteness.

Amaethon attempted to climb again, the snow already up to his ankles. He walked carefully and slowly. When he reached the rock once more, he reached out. The next thing he knew, he was deep in the snow. The ice grabbed his cheeks and nose, making them red and dark. He pulled himself up. The snow reached midway up his boots. There was nowhere to go. He slipped and went down the hill on his back.

"The Gulf of Lune, it's the only place to go," he told himself. Amaethon turned to his right, the direction he assumed was south.

…

The storm was increasing in its wickedness as the young Man tried to walk through the thigh-deep snow. His cheeks tingled and buzzed from the frost. He walked in complete white, not knowing where he was off to.

Without warning, he walked off of the land and fell into water. He went into shock from the frigidity. The thickness of the waterlogged cloak carried Amaethon down into the black depths. He could not get the cloak off of his shoulders, so he kicked and struggled for air.

Suddenly, he was lying in the snow, coughing and choking. He could not get the water out of his lungs, so his body's immediate response was to regurgitate. He spit and coughed into the snow. Chunks of his bad bread were scattered at his knees, along with a large amount of water. It was only now that he realized that it was salty. In fact, he turned and saw that the snow on the ground around him was gone, as if a great wave had crashed him to shore. The storm was still going. He had reached the north shore of the Gulf of Lune. To his left, there was a small wooden plank that jutted out into the sea. A three-person rowboat rocked up and down in place under the turbulent waves. Amaethon wiped his mouth on his sleeve and stood up.

A cloaked figure sat on a barrel, drinking from a tankard. Amaethon approached him, the water on his garments freezing in the wind. A strong smell of ale blew through the wind.

"The price is two pieces of silver," the voice said, leaning its head back and taking a long, final draught of the alcohol. His cloak covered his face in shadow. Not a single inch of his skin showed. He was prepared for the weather. Amaethon pulled his pack off of his back and pulled out his only two silver coins. He placed them in the hand of the figure. Amaethon wrapped his cloak around himself while he shivered, waiting for a response. "But seeing as you're headed upstream, it'll be four."

Amaethon scowled from under his cloak.

"That is all I have," he said, his voice shaking from the cold.

"Sorry!" the person said, leaning over and putting the coins into a sack.

"Would you be willing to strike a deal?" the young Man asked. The figure chuckled under his brown cloak.

"Depends on the reward," he said slyly.

"I will pay you with a ring."

The figure sat up. Amaethon had caught an interest.

"What sort of ring? How much is it worth?" he asked.

"If you take me upstream, I will pay it to you."

The person grumbled and stood up. He walked to the small boat and untied it from its mooring.

"Hop in," he said, gesturing to the boy. Amaethon stepped into the boat, steadying it so that it would not dump him into the sea. The person got in in front of him, but sat facing him. "What do you think you're doing?" he asked Amaethon. "Turn around and start rowing!" Amaethon turned to face the back of the boat. The waters were dark, and the sky was still windy and white. "We had better hurry. The water will soon freeze."

Amaethon pulled with all his strength against the current. They had been rowing for hours, and his arms were burning. He was extremely cold, and was certain that he would die before he reached the shore.

"We're going to the Grey Havens. From there, you'll be in the Shire. If I may ask…where are you going?" the person asked from behind.

"I'm going to live with distant family," Amaethon answered slowly.

"What happened to your close family?" he asked. Amaethon was annoyed with his pestering.

"They were killed and burned," Amaethon answered bluntly. The person was silent for a long time.

"So the servants of the Necromancer have reached even Forlindon…" he sounded shocked.

"I don't know of a "Necromancer", but I did hear that the Eye of Sauron is resting at the top of Barad-dur now," Amaethon said, pulling the oars back.

"We need to get to shore. I'm surprised that they have not yet found me…" the cloaked figure said timidly.

…

Amaethon pulled back on the oars again. The two sailors had not spoken for a very long time. In the wind, Amaethon thought that he heard a faint singing. He dismissed it and continued to pull. The singing grew louder and closer.

"Damn it!" the oarsman yelled. Amaethon turned around.

A large ship, much bigger than the small rowboat, was headed straight for them. He looked in shock at its size and beauty. The blowing snow whipped its mast around spasmodically. Amaethon became slightly mesmerized by the mysterious tune.

"Row! Row!" the figure yelled, kicking Amaethon in the back. He turned and grabbed his oars. The two people pulled back and forth with all their might. The white ship barely slid past the boat. Amaethon heard his guide let out a huge sigh. Amaethon looked curiously up at the ship. There were tall, slender Elves wrapped in cloaks, all standing on the ship and singing. One looked down at the small boat.

"May fortune be with you, strange sailor," the Elf said, raising his hand up towards the figure in the back. The singing died off and the ship vanished into the storm without a trace.

"Why are they leaving?" Amaethon asked, turning around.

"They do not want to be around when Middle-earth burns," the sailor said quietly. Amaethon turned and began rowing once more.

The two companions continued their route. They were close to shore.

…

The storm had finally subsided, but the sky was still thick with gray clouds and flurries. Amaethon's arms felt as if they were on fire when the rowboat finally reached the Grey Havens. Amaethon looked up at the massive towers on the cliffs above him. Stairways and steps led all over the place, all made of pristine white stone. There was not much snow in the harbor. Amaethon concluded that the storm must have only skimmed the area. A thick mist hung silently over the waters.

"Now is the time to look over your shoulder," the voice behind Amaethon whispered as he pulled back the oars. Amaethon turned around.

It was absolutely breathtaking. Even more towers stood upon the great cliffs, keeping watch over the Gulf of Lune. The trees were silver with frost. Many Elvish ships were in the harbor, and some Elves walked back and forth from them, loading supplies for their journey to sea. The gray-cloaked man rowed the boat up to a wooden plank and stepped off. He took Amaethon's hand and pulled him out of the boat. Amaethon stood on his own two feet and fell onto the deck. His legs felt like jelly and his feet were numb from cold. His head spun and he felt nauseous as he lay prostrate on the cold, damp wood.

"Now, time to get to business," the person growled. He dragged Amaethon by the arms and brought him behind an Elvish statue, out of sight. "Since you don't have the ring, I will need a ransom." Amaethon was shocked. He lifted his queasy body to his knees.

"How do you know?" he asked, shocked.

"I've been around liars and cheaters before, and I must say, you are a terrible one, boy. And just for your information, your father did not possess a Ring of Power. It was any other regular ring. He lied to you to save your life," he chuckled. Amaethon watched as he pulled back his hood.

The young Man pulled his blunt sword out of its sheath and pointed it at the Orc's chest. He had long, stringy black hair that went down to the middle of his back. His face and neck had a green hue. His eyes were like the brightest and most intense emeralds, staring boldly into the blue at his feet. He smirked and pulled out his long broadsword.

"I am Calen."

"Get away from me!" Amaethon's adrenaline kicked in and he stood back to his feet. He glanced down at his hands gripping the sword and noticed that they were a dark purple.

"You've been bitten by the frost, boy. You'll die either way," Calen said, whipping Amaethon's hood from his head. He put the point of his sword on the boy's neck.

"_Glamhoth! Glamhoth!_" a scared voice yelled. Calen whipped around and saw an Elf on a ship, yelling and pointing in their direction. The Orc pulled a longbow off of his back. He nocked an arrow to the string and fired instantly. Amaethon watched the arrow sail through the mist and slam into the Elf's chest. With a splash, he tumbled off the side of the ship.

"You were the one who killed my horse!" Amaethon suddenly realized.

"I have to make money somehow," he smirked. More Elves ran down the dock with swords. Calen spoke to Amaethon while he picked them off with his bow.

"What could you possibly need money this desperately for?" Amaethon asked boldly.

"Orcs aren't the most welcome characters in some parts, and I need something from someone. Keep out of my business, kid," he spat, continuing to fire upon the guards.

Suddenly, an Elf flew over Amaethon's head. He smashed the Orc in the cheek with the butt of his sword. He took a swing at Calen, but he suddenly had another blade embedded in his stomach. Calen twisted the hilt sharply and pulled it out. He kicked the corpse to the ground.

"I need to keep you in place," Calen said, wiping the small trail of black from his lips. He pulled coarse rope from inside his cloak and bound Amaethon's hands. The Elves' impetus ceased. "I hope you don't mind scraped knees," Calen said to Amaethon as he pulled his gray hood back over his head. He tugged the rope in his hand violently. The young boy fell flat on his face. The rope tugged once more and he slid over the harsh, cold bricks on the ground. He stumbled to his feet.

"I could pull out my sword at any moment and stab you in the back," Amaethon notified the Orc.

"Ah, of course! I believe I have more rope," Calen said with false enthusiasm. He pulled another line of rope from his cloak and cut it with his sword. He tied it around Amaethon's ankles. "And I'll take this, just for safekeeping," Calen pulled the sword from Amaethon's waist and held it up. "As if it were a weapon anyway," he snarled, tossing the blade into the icy water on the dock.

With a loud splash, it sank to the bottom of the sea.

Amaethon was tugged again. He fell hard on his front. His lip hit a sharp rock, and he instantly tasted blood. Calen pulled the rope over his shoulder as if he was pulling an animal. As he climbed the white stairs quickly, he heard hard thudding and grunting from the boy he was pulling.

"Only several hundred more stairs to go!" he mocked, climbing the exit stairway.

"Wait!" Amaethon yelled. Calen continued to drag the body up the stone.

"Yes?"

"I don't understand. How do you know anything about my father?" he asked, puzzled.

"'Isildur cut the ring from Sauron's hand!'" Calen said, turning to face him. Amaethon could not see his face in the darkness of his hood. He knew that voice. The elder who had taught him so much. Tears began to stream down his cheeks.

"You…I trusted you…" Amaethon sobbed. Calen said nothing and turned around. He yanked the line. Amaethon's nose buffeted the stair. Dark blood flowed into his mouth and down his chin. "Your skin was pale!" Amaethon spat blood onto the white stones.

"I put on a full disguise every day, kid. A lot of flour does the charm. The robes covered my limbs and hands. It was perfect."

"Why do you need me? Why did you watch me for all those years?" Amaethon stammered, exasperated.

"You could be someone. Someone others would not want to see come to power," Calen said. The two did not speak for hours.

…

The two of them followed the edge of the river Lune, which emptied into the Grey Havens. Amaethon was practically dead. His wrists were raw and the skin had been torn away from being dragged. His face was covered in dark smudges, cuts, and dried blood. The front of his tunic was in rags, and the knees were in no better condition. He lay on his front, tied to a tree on the bank of the river. His stomach rumbled and shook at the sides of his body. His throat was sore from inhaling dust and lack of water. He could not move by his own will.

Footsteps cracked branches and scattered stones. Amaethon heard wood being thrown onto the rocky ground. After several moments, he began to feel the warmth of a fire. The low orange light illuminated the surrounding area.

Suddenly, Amaethon felt someone turn him onto his back. He stared up at Calen. He was no longer wearing the gray cloak. He wore a black tunic that was torn and grimy. A white painted handprint was on the right side of his chest. Amaethon wondered what it symbolized.

Calen pulled a skin canteen from his side and kneeled, pouring fresh, clean, cold water down the boy's scratchy throat. Amaethon felt as if he was suddenly given life once more. He swallowed and sighed. The Orc put Amaethon's purple hands into a pot of hot water. He pulled off his boots and did the same with another pot.

"I am cooking some venison over the fire. I will bring you some when it is ready," he said softly. His long black hair hung over his green skin. Amaethon felt differently for the Orc kidnapper when he wiped his face with a wet piece of cloth. He scrubbed off the blood and wiped the grime from his cheeks.

"What…what is that symbol?" Amaethon's voice was slightly hoarse. Calen looked down at the white hand.

"I…you'll see soon enough, kid," he said quietly and walked back to the fire, avoiding conversation. Amaethon was puzzled, but more relaxed now. He turned to the fire.

"Where exactly _are_ we going?" Amaethon realized that he had not the slightest idea where he was headed.

"Isengard."


End file.
